


A Drop in the Bucket

by DragonTail



Series: Transformers: RID [13]
Category: Transformers (Unicron Trilogy), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 22:08:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/614886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DragonTail/pseuds/DragonTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the wake of the catastrophic events of "Unthinkable", the Autobots look to restore their shattered ranks. Ultra Magnus and Snarl are missing - and neither of their fates are what you might expect. Koji Jones, meanwhile, struggles to resume a normal life after his close encounter with the Autobot/Terrorcon war. Is he being paranoid, or are those cars in the garage really robots in disguise? Plus: Junko and Sideways have a... conversation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Rainbows are visions,_  
 _But only illusions,_  
 _And rainbows have nothing to hide…_

Nightbeat wasn’t so sure he believed that.

His love of Earth’s music notwithstanding, the Autobot detective doubted the wisdom of the popular tune. Rainbows, in his experience, hid struggle and toil within their beams; obscured suffering with refracted, happy light.

Of course, Nightbeat’s experiences were far different than those of most beings. His exposure to rainbows came in the form of Global Space Bridge walls. The first time he’d seen such a phenomena – an off-shoot of Transwarp technology, used to move through a planet’s mass – was on Gigalonia. His memories of that world were less than pleasant. Now he was moving through a near-identical tunnel, deep in the bowels of Earth… rushing toward, he feared, another macabre discovery.

He did not share such thoughts with his companions. They’d already been tortured enough.

“Move it!”

Scattorshot’s drawling Tyrestian accent usually charmed. Today it grated; so acute was the desperation in the little mech’s voice. The blue half-track tank travelled along the Global Space Bridge at a speed that should have been impossible for his frame; concern for a friend fuelling him far more potently than any form of energy.

“We’ve wasted more’n enough time,” Scattorshot barked, “an’ there ain’t no more t’ waste on y’all dragging your skid plates!”

A blue-and-white semi-trailer cab loomed in Nightbeat’s rear-view mirror.

“What, you think we don’t care or somethin’?” Armourhide asked caustically. “Look, half-pint, some things hadda be done before we went tearin’ off after Big Bot and Chopperface – like lockin’ up da stinking _traitor_ in our own house!”

Two Bugatti Veyron sports cars – one black, the other red and blue roared past.

“Shut yo mouth,” Jazz snapped. “Ain’t nothin’ been proved yet, you dig? Downshift’s situation is somp’in we gonna talk about once Magnus is safe n’ sound.”

“And we’ll talk about it,” Smokescreen added darkly, “after I’ve had a chance to speak to him. The rest of you are too close to it – you can’t be objective.”

A crackle of static sounded in Nightbeat’s cockpit. “Too close to it?” a cautious voice sniffed. “The diversionist won’t be any more impartial, given his association with this so-called team.”

While any serving trooper could use the inter-Autobot radio, Nightbeat’s group had their own dedicated, private frequency. Checkpoint’s disgust was, after all, not for the audio receptors of the RID units.

“You’re not kidding,” Arcee muttered, joining in the conversation. “It’s like… well, _cabin fever_ or something. They’ve been away from the core Autobot team so long they’ve forgotten how to function as a group.”

A nasty chuckle filled the bandwidth. “Used to see it all the time in our remote, deep-cover units,” offered Thundercracker, the ex-Decepticon. The jet was flying along the tunnel’s ceiling. “Some mechs just can’t handle isolation for vorns at a time. It can get pretty messy.”

“Understate much?” Zapmaster quipped. The Mini-con was racing alongside Arcee. “Think back to that outpost we stumbled on, back in the day. We never did find that one guy’s head.”

Nightbeat felt that old itch creep over his chassis; there was a mystery to be solved. It floated, tantalisingly, in front of his vehicle mode windscreen. Fifteen minutes earlier, a loyal Autobot engineer had been found in possession of Terrorcon message cylinder. A cursory evaluation of container’s contents yielded an allegedly treasonous connection, and the engineer – Downshift – was arrested and imprisoned.

The pieces didn’t fit together, even if you allowed for Arcee’s cabin fever theory. Proud, devout Autobots didn’t just up and switch sides when things got too stressful for them. Did they?

One half of his unique processor thought of Wheeljack, the serial killer, and shuddered. The other half focused on the task at hand.

Nemesis Prime had been defeated but Flame Convoy remained at large. The beast had chased Ultra Magnus and Snarl to a point somewhere ahead; a spot connected to the Autobot base by the Global Space Bridge. Embarking upon a suicide mission, at Downshift’s behest, the Earthforce commander and the white wolf of Animatros could no doubt use reinforcements… provided they could be located. Provided they were still alive.

_Someday, we'll find it,_  
 _The rainbow connection,_  
 _The lovers, the dreamers, and me..._

“Th’ signal’s strongest up there,” Scattorshot transmitted. Nightbeat and the others switched back to the primary frequency. “There’s a left-hand turn… global tracking says we’re somewhere near th’ Seychelles. Man, they ran that four-legged freak a heck of a long way, didn’t they?”

“If I was dem,” Armourhide answered, “I’da kept on runnin’, too.”

Nightbeat and his team hung back; Smokescreen accelerated past Scattorshot and took the lead. “No sense presenting a target,” he said. “Put up your flare shields – I’ve been saving this trick for just such an occasion.”

With a mental nudge, Nightbeat slid clear, tinted panels down over his windshield. Sections of Smokescreen’s bodywork, painted white, began to glow iridescently. His entire chassis flashed for a moment, then exploded in brilliant, clean light as he ploughed through the GSB’s exit portal.

“Transform,” Scattorshot commanded.

The Autobots thundered back into real-space and transformed. Smokescreen ended the impromptu lightshow; he and Jazz flipped up their matching shoulder-mounted missile racks. Scattorshot glowed blue as his Force Chip manifested. Arcee lifted Zapmaster bodily and threw him into the air – the small robot turned a somersault and Powerlinked with Thundercracker. Nightbeat followed his example; with a nod, he and Checkpoint combined into their super-powered gestalt form.

Armourhide spat on the ground. The commando had buried the muzzle of his rifle in the sand and was leaning back on the weapon. “Impressive an’ all, but you may notice dere ain’t nobody here but us.”

The island was a portrait of elegant, tropical calm. Cool water lapped the hot, sandy beach. Several palm trees swayed in the breeze, standing tall amongst others that had fallen… or been newly felled. They were the only obvious signs of conflict: there were no laser scorch marks, nor footprints, nor craters and unexploded ordnance. In short, the island looked like the last place in the universe that three Transformers could possibly have held any sort of confrontation.

Scattorshot slapped his wrist-mounted sensor array angrily. “Dumb thing!”

Jazz looked over his shoulder at the blinking display. “No,” he soothed, “you readin’ it right. Says Magnus should be right around here somewhere.”

“Look around, Joe Cool,” Thundercracker said sardonically. “It’s not like there’s a thousand places you could hide a mech that big, is it?”

“Pipe down, Decepticon,” Smokescreen growled.

“Make me, foggy,” the aerial warrior grinned, eager for a scrap.

Nightbeat ignored them. He uncoupled from Checkpoint and, staring intently at the ground, began walking the grid. It was a term he’d picked up from human criminologists; a way of dissecting a crime scene – or potential crime scene – so one did not miss a vital clue. He walked to the coastline, turned on his heel and walked back to the middle of the small island, less than a metre over from – and directly parallel to – his original path.

Locard’s Principle held that one could not move through an area without leaving something of oneself behind – trace evidence, it was called. Locard, a human, intended his concept apply to his race, specifically its daily biological degeneration and the treasure trove that provided for forensic investigators. Nightbeat had found it held equally true for mechanical life forms; scraps of paint, drops of oil and fuel, the most miniscule fragments of exploded shells.

Until now.

The beach was clean. Literally. It lacked even the smallest remnant of battlefield debris. Abandoning the grid-walk, Nightbeat turned his attention beyond the beach itself, to the crystalline waters surrounding the small spit of land… and gasped.

“This way,” he called, racing into the surf. What appeared to be a sand bar, a few hundred metres out to sea, was actually a corpse. The frame was horrifically damaged – ruined, with a massive hole right through its chest and spine – but still too heavy for him to move on his own. It took the strength of four Autobots to drag the mortal remains of Flame Convoy, blacksmith of the primal Transformers, to shore.

“By th’ primordial program,” Scattorshot whispered.

Armourhide whistled. “Dat’s one t’ing we can cross off da list, anyway.”

“Any chance he’s still alive?” Arcee asked. Nemesis Prime’s temporary resurrection had shaken them all.

Checkpoint shook his head. “Not a one. Even gods need parts to function, and he’s all out of internal components. I can’t detect a Spark, either.” No one disputed his opinion – he could pinpoint a 2cm object from 1200 feet, hear a microchip drop from 2km away and detect trace odours as weak as two parts per million.

“They did it,” Jazz said, his voice filled with admiration. “Magnus an’ Snarl took down Flame Convoy.” He whooped. “It weren’t no suicide mission after all!”

Thundercracker coughed loudly. They all turned to look – he and Zapmaster were about a kilometre away, pulling something from the surf. “Spoke too soon,” he called.

Flame Convoy’s carcass forgotten, the group ran over to their dark ally. Thundercracker’s usual apathy was gone; his scarlet face plate was etched with disappointment rather than cheery contempt for the world. Zapmaster, too, was dour – his constant cheerleading, for once, absent.

It was on account of their discovery, one as macabre as Nightbeat had feared. Broad wings on the mech’s back had been snapped off, leaving only jagged stumps. A ragged wound gaped in the being’s side; the massive blue-and-white form was riddled with pockmarks, scorching and furrowed claw marks. Sections of bodywork that weren’t dented had melted away; fragments of ice clung stubbornly to fingers that had been snapped or bitten off. A long scar ran the length of the robot’s face plate, effectively crossing out its right optic.

“No,” Scattorshot retched.

Thundercracker lay Ultra Magnus’ body on the sand with uncharacteristic reverence. The Autobots crowded around the shattered remnants of their fallen leader. Their pained, disbelieving silence lasted minutes.

Finally, Armourhide looked up. “Now whadda we do?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to [McFly](http://www.allspark.com/forums/index.php?showuser=3319) for technical support.

What was one human life worth, really?

Murashita Chinatsu pondered the question. There were, she supposed, many possible answers. The existentialism of it all would have appealed to her late father in particular. _Would that I could lay this problem at his door._

“I’ll give you a Shanix for them.”

She tried to shut out the mocking voice.

“Of course, you’ll have to let me up first.”

It wasn’t working so well.

“Which, you know, wouldn’t be an altogether horrible thing. I’ve been lying down for a few weeks now and I’m convinced my servos are corroding away to nothing.”

That tore it. “Shut up shut up shut _up!_ ” Junko pulled the remote control from her pocket. Her thumb hovered over the single red button set into it. Then she paused; thinking hard. As much as it abhorred her to admit it, she’d need _his_ help.

Sideways watched as the remote control slipped back out of sight. “Now that’s hospitality,” he said happily. “It’d be a truly terrible world if a mech couldn’t make a simple comment without getting fried.” He shifted as much as his bonds would allow. “As I was saying: Shanix for your thoughts?”

Red lips twisting in a sneer, Junko held out a newspaper clipping. A grainy newsprint photograph depicted rescuers pulling a 20-something man from the crumbling ruins of a parking lot. _Sole survivor_ , read the 150-point headline. _Man pulled from meteor strike now in coma_ , a sub-heading added.

“Given the location,” Junko growled, “there’s little chance he missed it.”

_It_ was the battle they’d fought a few weeks earlier. Together, they’d gone up against the mad Transformers called Flame Convoy and Scorponok – mechanical beasts that decimated the downtown area and killed hundreds of thousands of people.

They’d not been alone. Ultra Magnus and Snarl, the Autobots, had all but given their lives to halt the carnage. Repugnus and Apelinq, technorganic life-forms from the future, had made sacrifices just as heartbreaking. Especially Apelinq…

Junko steeled herself. Apelinq didn’t matter, right now. Discerning his fate – maybe even changing it – was a matter for another day. She had centuries, if necessary, to prepare. The survivor of the downtown holocaust presented a far more immediate danger. Should that man speak of what he’d surely witnessed… gigantic metal wolves, dragons, lizards, apes, scorpions and robots in pitched battle… the existence of Transformers would be revealed to the world.

And then there would be chaos.

“Pretty obvious,” Sideways deadpanned. Though missing his right arm, and strapped to the floor of a hidden bunker, the faceless mech had lost none of his attitude. “That’s not the question plaguing you, is it?”

“What do you have up your sleeve,” she asked, “to address this?”

He tutted. “No, that’s not the question, either. You’re wondering how far you’re willing to go to keep things quiet.”

Junko cursed him silently. This was all his fault.

Murashita Chinatsu loved science fiction. She watched movies and anime, read manga and comics – had even participated in fan conventions, in her youth. She thrilled to the sense of adventure, wonderment and escapism. Never for a moment did she believe the stories she so enjoyed could possibly have any basis in fact.

She was just like her father – the grandchild of Hiroshima survivors. Only too well did he know the consequences of radiation… not super powers, but cancerous death. An imaginative man, he encouraged her voracious appetite for fiction but tempered it with reality, creating within her a thirst for scientific knowledge.

It was why working for the Agency and its reclusive benefactor, G.B. Blackrock, had so appealed to her. Debunking myths, exposing frauds and con artists, finding rational explanations for seemingly irrational phenomena… it wasn’t just a job, it was her _passion._ Junko liked reality to one side and fantasy to the other; clearly separated. Everyone in the Agency did.

But everyone in the Agency was a pawn. Living chess pieces, moving around at the whim of Sideways.

G.B. Blackrock _didn’t exist._ Well, he had once – the name belonged to a child who died decades ago, just days after his birth. Sideways had appropriated the name and, through first a paper trail and later an online web, created a false identity for himself. Suitably disguised, he gathered scientists and sceptics together and used their intelligence for one purpose: protecting his business.

The Transformer dealt in extra-terrestrial technology, information and “access”, providing hi-tech solutions to Earth’s governments. His success was based on his supposed unique nature – if his clients knew he was one of a _race_ of alien robots, they’d either freak out or try to capture him.

A clever bastard, he’d had spent decades cultivating faceless, nameless agencies across the world to spread his propaganda message – “nothing to see here, folks, move along” – to the populace. Each branch thought it was the only one; every agent thought themselves to be a special, elite officer of rational thought.

Quite by accident, Sideways had done something wonderful for the human race – he’d kept it focused on the important things. He’d stopped the spread of global ignorance and, in some cases, halted mass panic before it began. But any virtue had sprung, unwanted, from pure vice.

The existence of the Transformers was something Junko had taken personal delight in disproving. She’d been wrong… no, she’d been _manipulated_ into believing she was wrong. Now, her conscience demanded she reveal the Autobots and Terrorcons to the world – let the people know the menace that hid amongst them! Much like the radiation her father had so abhorred – his disgust at its portrayal in the world of fiction – she wanted to scream of the horrific danger robots and aliens posed.

And yet… 

Humanity had enough trouble coping without learning it was smack in the middle of an intergalactic civil war – that the cars and trucks around them were sentient, alien robots. Those capable of dealing with such a revelation, meanwhile, would be the sort of people who’d capture and dissect the Transformers, steal their technology and build ever-more destructive weapons of war.

Junko had promised herself the ignorant would go without fear, and the greedy without reward. She’d kill every last mechanical being – Autobot and Terrorcon alike – to keep that vow, knowing all the while she would have to sacrifice many of her principles for the sake of the world. Too many.

“What is one human life worth, really?” she asked aloud.

Sideways shrugged. “Depends who you’re asking,” he said. “I know slavers in the gamma quadrant who’ll pay top dollar for human slaves, provided they’re able-bodied and have had their tongues removed. Your biological races tend to like having humans around… mechanical life doesn’t have much use for them, though.

“If you’re asking _ethically,_ not financially, I guess you’d have to value a single human life pretty highly. All that free will – all that boundless capacity for innovation, invention and perversion – makes you so radically different from other races in the universe. Especially my own.

“But your question’s a tad different. You’re trying to weigh the needs of the many against the needs of the one. If your survivor’s seen a Cybertronian throw-down, and wakes up feeling chatty, your crusade’s over. And you can’t wipe the mind of a comatose patient… no tech I can offer works on the unconscious human brain.

“In those circumstances, Murashita, then a human life is worth a drop in the bucket that floats in an ocean of blood – an ocean created by your failure to act.”

Her stomach turned sour. Sideways must have noticed. “Not so great being the boss now, is it?”

“You can’t give me a Shanix for my thoughts,” she spat back nastily. “I control all your bank accounts.”

\-----

Koji’s stomach soured. They were at it _again._

He coughed loudly. Sally and Alexis blushed. “Sorry, kiddo,” his aunt blushed. “I’m still not used to having you around.”

The nine-year-old rolled his eyes. “Grown ups suck,” he muttered. “Kissing is stupid. _And_ gross.”

“Oh sure,” laughed Alexis, who’d just returned from work. “You say that _now._ Give it a few years and you’ll change your mind.”

“Pfft. Not likely.”

Hefting the remote control in his hand, he slunk back into the couch and flipped channels. There was nothing on. Aunt Sally didn’t even have the most basic cable package. The house’s internet access was shabby and primitive. It was like he was trapped in the late 20th Century… _the house that time forgot!_

“Good day at school?” Alexis asked.

In spite of the weirdness of their first meeting, Koji was starting to like Alexis. She worked a lot of long, odd hours – in public relations or something – in the city. So she was always happy to escort Koji wherever he liked… the arcade, the movies, the toy shops... on the way to her office. Through Alexis, he’d found at least a little freedom.

“Don’t ask him that until he’s done his homework,” Sally scowled.

His aunt, Koji had decided, was a kook. On the one hand she was a free spirit, a “greenie”, a devoted environmentalist. That’s why the house looked like a museum piece – anything that smacked of hi-tech living, or held the merest of environmental threats, was a no-no. On the other hand she was _obsessed_ with education. Her favourite phrase was “you’re only entitled to an informed opinion”, and she rode Koji the Dreamer hard about his grades and school work.

Maybe that was why she and his dad had fought so badly. Joshua Jones had been a slave-driver, too, but for different reasons. Koji now understood his father had seen a _very_ different side of life to most people, and probably just wanted his kid to be prepared for anything. His strict nature came from realism, not idealism like Sally.

“Maybe a break’s in order,” Alexis said kindly, favouring Koji with a wink. “I’m in the mood for Chinese, but I’d rather go get it than have it delivered. Ride, kiddo?”

Koji sat bolt upright in the couch and threw the remote aside. “Four wheels or two?” he asked, his technological boredom forgotten.

“Oh please,” Sally eye-rolled. “They’re just vehicles, Koji.”

“They must be something special if _you’ll_ let them anywhere near this place,” he muttered under his breath.

“Two, I think,” Alexis said, her mouth creasing with a hint of a smile. She must have heard him. “Nights like this, I just want to keep on riding.”

The boy pulled on his sneakers and snatched up his jacket, following the woman through the door to the garage. Her “beauties” were waiting – the orange and chrome Harley Davidson motorcycle, right alongside the midnight black Trans-Am.

In keeping with her partner’s environmental stance, Alexis rode the monorail instead of taking either vehicle to work. Koji had no doubt that was why she found a reason, each and every night, to take one of them out for a spin. Thankfully, she always offered to let him tag along.

“All good?” she asked, slipping into her leathers and grabbing her helmet.

“Sweet,” he smiled, securing a helmet over his tousled brown hair.

The bike thrummed with horsepower. Sometimes, it seemed like Alexis didn’t even need to turn the key – it was just ready and _raring_ to take off. Koji wrapped his arms around her waist, locked his feet into the passenger footpegs and hunkered down.

The world dissolved into a mass of wind and coloured lights; the only sound he could hear was the drop-n-thunk of gear changes; his sensations withdrew and registered only motion and the slight lurch of the clutch. The sheer exhilaration of speed caused him to let out a loud, joyous whoop.

“You’re speaking my language,” Alexis yelled over the din. They accelerated again, well and truly breaking the speed limit and annoying a bunch of pedestrians making their way to their dull suburban homes.

Beneath the helmet, Koji grinned. Times like this, he didn’t miss the Autobots. Not one bit. Sure, living Bugatti Veyrons and car carriers had a certain “cool factor”, but all the lying left him cold.

Times like this, he didn’t miss the Autobots… but he _never_ stopped missing his folks. He kept in touch with Scattorshot, once a week, as ordered by Ultra Magnus. Even so, there were never any updates on his Mum and Dad. They’d been prisoners of the Terrorcons for months, now, and no one had any idea how to find them – let alone mount a rescue mission. It was gnawing away inside him… all he really wanted was to know they were safe, that they were going to be all right.

“It’s tough, isn’t it?” Alexis yelled.

“What?”

“About your parents,” she said, shouting to be heard. “That no one’s heard anything in weeks. Must be killing you.”

Alexis coasted the bike into the Chinese restaurant’s parking lot. She took off her helmet and shook out her short brown hair. “I can relate,” she said softly. “I lost my folks when I was young, too.”

“They’re not lost,” Koji said, suddenly petulant.

She paled. “No, of course… I didn’t mean… damn it. Sorry.”

“S’okay.”

Alexis took a breath. “Sally doesn’t show it much but she’s worried, too,” she offered. “Maybe you could, I don’t know, talk to her about it? Share the worry for a bit?”

“Pfft.” He dropped the helmet on the ground.

“Ah, to be nine again,” Alexis laughed bitterly. “This is why I never wanted kids… I’m no good at trying to reason with them.”

Koji looked up, a little ashamed. He patted the bike fondly. “You don’t do so bad.”

They grinned at one another, and she ruffled his hair. “You want extra wontons in the soup, right?”

He smiled “That’d be great.”

\-----

They’d poured iron filings into his optics and welded them shut. Blinded him in the most sadistic of manners before tearing off his arms and legs. Cruel as they were, they’d chosen to leave him a twitching, disabled husk – no doubt for their amusement.

It was the only explanation Snarl could think of. His mechanical frame felt strangely weightless. His limbs would not respond to his mental commands; his sensors registered that he was upright, perhaps even on display. Worst of all, he could feel tiny, gritty things _swarming_ around his optics. It was horrifying.

His lupine ears, still keen, picked up a _snap_ and a _hiss._ Liquid swirled around him; he realised he was not weightless but floating in some kind of thick, viscous solution. Nerve impulses twitched his shoulders and hips – his arms and legs were back online, and they’d not been detached. Snarl’s optics opened, unbidden, in time to see a large metal plate slide past his face.

The white wolf of Animatros had been in some kind of chamber.

Eyes, now blissfully free of irritation, scanned his darkened surrounds. He was in a med-bay, very similar to the one used by the Autobots. And he was not alone.

“Why is it,” he growled threateningly, “that every time I open my eyes, lately, the first thing I see is your face?”

Chromia was sitting on a bench directly opposite him. One of her legs was crossed playfully over the other; she was arching her back and supporting herself with splayed arms. She was smiling, yet for some odd reason Snarl found his gaze drifting toward the curves of her chassis instead of her expression. Her design was… magnetic.

“Guess you’re just lucky, rover,” Chromia breathed. “You know how many mechs would _pay_ to have me wait around while they take a CR dunk?”

_CR dunk?_ It took Snarl a moment to identify the strange phrase. It was, he realised, the way Cybertronians healed… standing upright in tall chambers, immersed in life-giving fluids. He’d heard Downshift, once, mention the tiny creatures within that liquid who effected repairs… the likely cause of the sensation around his eyes.

“Why the long face?” Chromia asked.

“I… have no experiences with your world’s medicine,” Snarl admitted hesitantly. “On Animatros, one withdraws from the pack until one’s wounds have healed. Unless you are Transmetal, of course, in which case injuries are of little consequence. Being… displayed… as a body re-knits itself is, to me, a concept most bizarre.”

He flexed his arms experimentally; took a step out of the chamber and onto the cool, antiseptic floor of the med-bay. “I know not why you’ve tended my wounds,” he growled, baring golden fangs, “but my gratitude will not stretch so far as to consent to being your prisoner.”

The Terrorcon femme laughed. Her mirth tinkled like the birdsongs of his home planet. “You’re no one’s prisoner, Snarl,” she said. “You’re a guest.”

“What?”

She uncrossed her legs and slipped off the bench. “Like that’s a big surprise?” she asked coyly, strolling adroitly across to him.

Snarl found the movement of her hips to be as hypnotic as the rest of her frame. Unfamiliar feelings stirred within him; they resembled the anticipation of a hunt, the release of _huntnomore_. His sensors were pulsing, his body wanted to run in four directions at once. Synthetic adrenalin pumped through his pathways; although he was in wolf mode, his steel hackles rose and his ears flattened against his head.

Chromia drew alongside him, chest plate to chest plate. The femme was slightly shorter than the wolf. A burst of static electricity arced between their metal bodies and Snarl jumped, surprised by its intensity. Chromias expression didn’t change.

“You’re welcome to leave, whenever you want,” she whispered. He had to strain to hear her. “Or, you’re welcome to stay. I know which _I’d_ prefer.”

He leaned in closer… and, with another sizzle of electricity, she turned her back. Chromia did not spare him a second glance as she walked out of the med-bay, closing the steel door behind her. Once again, Snarl was alone.

He reached around to scratch the back of his neck. “This makes no sense,” he rumbled, trying to banish Chromia’s form from his thoughts. “Enemies to not seek to help one another once a mutual threat has been destroyed. Flame Convoy must be, therefore, still alive. Predacon has repaired me that I may rejoin the fight. If so… why, then, would I be permitted to leave at a time of my choosing?”

There were two other CR chambers in the duty, cobweb-strewn facility. Both were empty. No sign, then, of Ultra Magnus… no hint as to his fate. Perhaps the Earthforce commander was still engaged in battle; perhaps only some of the Terrorcons had withdrawn from the conflict.

“Difficult to believe,” he argued with himself. “Befuddle my senses she may, but Chromia’s attitude is that of a victor; one enjoying the calm after a confrontation. And my surrounds are quiet… absent are the urgent, tense sounds an army makes when readying for another assault.”

The battle must have ended. Flame Convoy had somehow been defeated, and the Terrorcons – at least some of them – had survived. For whatever reason, they’d brought him along and repaired him.

“What manner of enemy would do such a thing?”

“One who is, in the grand scheme of things, not an enemy at all.”

The unexpected voice made him drop into a fighting stance. He found his long-barrelled missile launcher – fully loaded, its sword-end sharpened – propped next to the CR chamber. He snatched it up and waved it around the room. “Show yourself!”

“Now? I shall be happy to, dear pup,” drawled a malevolent voice. “I wouldn’t have presumed to interrupt your… quality time with Chromia any earlier. No.”

Snarl scowled. “Predacon.”

A view screen, on the far wall, flared to life. Snarl could see the Terrorcon leader leering from out a pool of shimmery, silvery Energon. He held a long scrubbing brush in his right hand; a small rubber duck floated past.

“Welcome back, my once and future ally,” the zealot said. “I hope you did not find the CR chamber experience too… disturbing. A form of captivity, yes, but one imposed for the sake of your well-being.”

“Disconcerting, more than disturbing,” Snarl conceded, lowering his weapon. “Though that feeling would pass, were I given sufficient explanation of your actions.”

“What’s to explain?” Predacon scoffed. The Energon around him rippled; his duckie bobbed on the surface haphazardly. “I saw a fellow being in trouble and elected to help. Hardly a great mystery, Fang Wolf.”

“Altruism,” Snarl deadpanned, “was never among your traits, _Brushguard_.”

Predacon smirked uncomfortably. “Ah. Touché.” He sighed. “Really… Snarl… there is no need for such acidic banter. Your dim appraisal aside, I can assure you there is nothing insidious about my motives. Ultra Magnus asked me – nay, _ordered_ me – to see to your welfare, and I followed your leader’s command.”

The wolf snorted. “He is no leader of mine.”

“How very interesting,” Predacon said, dropping the scrubbing brush. “The fickle nature of your fealty is legend, of course, but I was almost certain a warrior as brave, self-sacrificing and courageous as the late, great Ultra Magnus would pierce even your triple-plated self-interest.”

“He is no leader of mine,” Snarl repeated, biting off the words, “for he is no longer of this world. Seek not to play me as a fool, reptile – were Magnus alive, you’d not risk having me within your stronghold for fear of his rescue attempts.”

Predacon grinned wryly. “So well do we know each other! Do you not think it a tragedy we find ourselves, eternally, on opposite sides of the battlefield?”

“I’ve no interest in submitting to your rule, parasite.”

“Of course you don’t,” the zealot continued, a slight twitch the only sign he’d registered the rebuke. “And I would never insult you by stooping so low as to seek your allegiance. No. We were once friends, Snarl, and it is that – and no more – which I seek from you again.”

The med-bay door opened. Snarl saw it was being guarded by Wreckloose, Battle Ravage… and Chromia. The moose lizard and the metallic jaguar glared at him, then slunk off into the shadows. Strain as he might, the wolf could no longer hear their footfalls, nor pick up their scents. They’d left their posts.

“My home is your home,” Predacon crooned, “for as long as you would have it thus. Please, my old friend, wander at your leisure – you will find that, unlike the Autobots, there are no secrets here. Explore to the very edges of the Path, with nothing and no one to bar your way… all you will find is the _freedom_ you’ve long sought.”

Chromia smiled. “Come into our parlour,” she purred.


	3. Chapter 3

Her father had been enamoured of puzzles. Not blocks or jigsaws – Junko’s father wasn’t the sort who played Sodoku or filled out a crossword. He was obsessed with what he referred to as the “higher puzzles”.

Murashita Murakami enjoyed questioning the nature of existence; the need for war, the motivation for murder. His playgrounds were morality and ethics – the same sort of ground trod by those whose thoughts were Machiavellian.

“You’re serious about this, then.”

Junko let several strands of blue hair fall across her face before favouring Sideways with a feral grin. “I’m holding the remote control, aren’t I?”

“That you are,” the Transformer sighed. “It’s been a long, long time since I was drafted. Doesn’t feel any better this time, let me tell you.”

She tapped some keys on a nearby workstation and the machinery in the hangar came to life. Powerful hydraulics lifted Sideways’ detached arm from its place on the wall and lowered it onto the conveyor belt. The limb rode to the end of the rollers and dropped, with a loud _clang,_ onto the floor.

Junko thought of the heavy books that had lined her father’s shelf. She remembered the calamitous noise one had made when she had dropped it on the polished wood stairs. Banned from her father’s room, fearing punishment, she was instead questioned. Junko became another one of her father’s puzzles.

More delicate machinery took up the arm and manoeuvred it toward the Cybertronian’s shoulder socket. Welding torches and the mech’s own internal repair systems did the rest. In less than five minutes, Sideways was whole once more.

“Whole, not functional,” he groused. “I’ve got my right arm back, and I’m getting signals from its transformation relays, but I can’t move it or my fingers.”

“Good enough,” Junko nodded. “It’s not your robot mode I care about anyway. I just figured you’d be more comfortable transforming with all your parts in place.”

“Pfft,” Sideways grunted. “Like my transformation’s ever comfortable.”

That long-ago interrogation had been uncomfortable. Junko was expected to justify her actions, explain her distaste for his rules, to quantify her curiosity. Childish whimsy was no excuse – there had to be something _deeper_ , something that drove her to misbehave. Of that, her father was certain.

Even then, she’d wondered why such a simple man – a cab driver – was so fascinated by human nature. And why a man whose job was to ferry people around would so want to understand his fare-paying cargo.

“Get up,” she snapped. Another series of keystrokes deactivated the magnetic clamps that had fastened Sideways to the floor of the hangar. They flipped open and, slowly, the mech rose to a sitting position. His joints made horrible, high-pitched noises.

“Ugh,” he deadpanned. “Told you.”

Junko pulled the heavy black bodysuit over her normal clothes, fingering the remote control before she secured it in a leg pouch. “Get up, or I’ll give you a _reason_ to bitch,” she warned.

“Like some cheese to go with that whine?” Sideways muttered. As he’d warned, his right arm was useless – it hung limp at his side. Junko had thought repairing a robot would be a simple matter of slapping its parts back together. Obviously, more went into Transformer physiology than she’d first thought.

Static flickered across Sideways’ inscrutable orange face plate. Junko realised it was his version of a frown. Pieces of his body began to contort and move into different positions. He hissed as his dead arm slotted into position, completing the transformation from robot to alien spacecraft.

She climbed aboard. The Transformer’s interior was surprisingly spacious. A hand fell on her shoulder. “Where to, ma’am?”

Junko turned around, the sabot pistol already in her hand. Behind her stood a smiling man, in his late 60s, wearing what appeared to be a 1940s cab driver uniform. She peered closely at him… and the pixels on his cheeks and forehead.

“Very funny,” she sneered, putting the gun back in its holster. “Hologram?”

“Holo _matter_ ,” the cabbie, who spoke with Sideways’ voice, replied. “A fully-customisable, hard light construct. The Autobots invented the tech and the Decepticons… got a hold of it. Eventually.” The cabbie grinned mischievously. “It’s great for spying. When a mech creates a holomatter avatar, it gets linked to his nervous system and neural net. I see and feel what bozo here sees and feels.”

Junko smiled. Casually, she lifted her arms and pulled her long hair back into an impromptu French braid. Then she buried her foot in the avatar’s crotch. The hard light dummy’s eyes crossed as it gasped and dropped to its knees. The craft around her rumbled as if it were caught in an earthquake.

She nestled into a seat in the cockpit and pulled a pair of sunglasses from a pouch on her breast. “Can we go now?” she asked, putting them on.

A cough echoed through the enclosed space. That was the only reply she got, aside from the firing of engines and the faint scent of ozone.

Sideways lifted off the ground. The thick steel doors of the hanger groaned and creaked open. Wobbling slightly, the Transformer moved horizontally over the ground, out of the enclosure and up into the night sky.

“Guess we’re headed to the hospital, then,” he quipped. “No prizes for guessing why _I’m_ on this little jaunt. I knew I should have bought you guys stealth aircraft.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“It was far wiser to spend the money on the stock market. You’d be surprised at my stake in 20th Century Fox. May super hero movies be ever profitable, says I.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. Junko had believed that nothing could make her mission any harder. Now she knew Sideways added to the pain of _anything._

What, she pondered, would her father have made of that?

\-----

Snarl lowered his head and charged, bracing himself for the impact. Chromia rebounded off his skull with a satisfying noise. He paid her no further attention and surged forward, relishing the renewed feeling in his limbs.

Battle Ravage was on his heels in seconds. The jaguar was growling low and long, his eagerness for the hunt evident. Snarl could smell the foul odour of his stolen organics. Hate made his hackles rise; he longed to turn and tear his pursuer limb from limb… but escape was his goal.

His urgency doubled as another set of footsteps joined the chase. Wreckloose ran not along the corridor, but the walls and ceiling. A raspy hiss marked his passage overhead, from one side of the corridor to the other.

A bolt of emerald energy sizzled over Snarl, trailing a black mark across his pristine white armour. He ignored it and kept running for the exit. He was but metres away when something large, heavy and _gooey_ dropped onto his back. Jagged claws dug into his flanks and held fast.

“And just where do you think you’re going?” Wreckloose sneered. “Ah well, it doesn’t matter – I’m coming along for the ride!”

“So you believe,” Snarl barked.

The wolf braced his legs and ducked, stopping dead. Battle Ravage, his momentum too great, opted to vault over his quarry. The jaguar had not the distance to execute a proper leap and so collided, instead, with Wreckloose.

The Terrorcons howled as they crashed, then tumbled off Snarl’s back. The wolf transformed to robot mode and pulled himself free of the twisted, fleshy mess, and ran out of the technorganic cathedral.

Sunlight… fresh air… it felt so good on his armour. He wanted to stop and drink it all in; to celebrate his return to the natural world. Such feelings were short-lived; the whine of engines assaulted his ears.

Wheeljack powered toward him; the black sports car throwing dirt and muck into the air. Aping Wreckloose, the wolf jumped and somersaulted onto his foe’s roof. He raised his wolf’s head fist and brought it down against Wheeljack’s front right tyre. Teeth punctured rubber with explosive force. The killer jerked to one side and slammed hood-first into a mangrove tree. Snarl was already off and away, headed for the marshes and the freedom beyond.

He was waist-deep in the eddying brown waters when he realised his mistake.

Sharkticon grabbed his paddling feet and pulled him under. Snarl hit his head on the murky bottom of the swamp; his senses reeled. Red light refracted through the water as the Terrorcon activated his boosters and delivered a flurry of rocket punches.

“You’re mine, doggie,” the yellow-and-black mech rasped.

“Such courage,” Snarl grunted, “ill suits you, _coward._ ”

His demeanour rattled the aquatic warrior, who hesitated a second too long. Snarl drove his tail sword into Sharkticon’s midsection, doubling him over. Once, Snarl would have paused to guarantee a fatal blow. This day, he abandoned the weapon totally and began kicking for the surface. Time was of the essence.

His head breached the surface and he looked around – right into the barrel of Sky Shadow’s gun. The macabre scientist stood next to Predacon. The Transmetal zealot held a small chronometer in his right hand, and was grinning broadly.

“Five seconds faster,” he said approvingly. “Even _with_ the addition of Sharkticon. A wonderful achievement, Snarl. Yes.”

Sky Shadow extended his hand – the wolf took it gratefully and waded onto the shore. “The goal of any hunter should be efficiency,” he muttered. “I will admit to being impressed with your style of training. It is… invigorating.”

“And we do it every day,” Sharkticon grumbled as he wormed ashore. “Unfortunately.” He pulled the tail sword from his midsection, looked distastefully at the wound it had left, and handed it to Snarl.

“Yes, every day,” Predacon enthused, looping an arm around Snarl’s shoulders and leading him away from the rest of the Terrorcons. They strolled back toward the cathedral, past Crumplezone’s efforts to pull Wheeljack off the tree. “When one walks the Path, violence is a common occurrence – the better to hone our deadly skills. Autobots and Decepticons train with their claws in, desperate not to wound another. We practice as do true hunters, and let the blood seep where it may!”

Up ahead, Chromia was waiting. She appeared to be unaffected by their earlier clash… both physically and emotionally. The coy look on her face plate made Snarl’s armour tingle.

Predacon smiled conspiratorially. “I’m sure you can see the benefits of our way.”

The wolf smiled tightly. “I am beginning to.”

\-----

“Have fun,” he’d said sardonically. “Think of me.”

Junko gritted her teeth at the memory. She wasn’t sure what was worse – the tension in her head, thanks to Sideways’ jibe, or the tension in her knees.

If the hospital orderly, standing directly below her, didn’t move soon, she’d fall right on his head. Hiding atop a large medicine cabinet had not been her first choice, but the middle-aged, overweight man had surprised her.

Below, the orderly demolished the last of his chocolate bar with three bites. Then – blessedly – he walked out, brushing crumbs and caramel from his beard. Junko breathed a sight of relief and, as the door closed, dropped lightly to the floor.

The small supply room was directly adjacent to the survivor’s guarded, private room. The authorities had yet to speak with the only witness to the downtown incident; police protected him round-the-clock. It made Junko laugh. No one in power believed the meteor strike story. They wanted to know what manner of weapon could annihilate so many buildings… and people… so quickly. That was precisely the sort of knowledge she needed to keep from them.

“Sorry, father,” she muttered. “The end is justified, this time.”

She took a thick, grated tube taken from a pouch on her leg. It was a modified heat gun, powerful enough to melt brick. One pull of the trigger and the wall in front of her shimmered and _drooped_ enough for her to climb through.

The room was dark, lit only by the green glow of the life support machines. Junko measured them up, trying to discern which wires she’d need to cut. Killing the man, outright, would leave forensic evidence. Disabling the life-support machines would sound an alarm and bring doctors running – not to mention the police officer right outside. Some sort of drug would be best, but she didn’t know where to…

A bunch of flowers stood on the bedside table – roses. Nearby was a surgical trolley laden with scalpels, tools and a syringe. Drawing enough poison out of the roses – a large concentration –and injecting it into the patient’s IV line would be as effective as any drug she could name.

Junko took a breath, hoping to cancel out the bile in her throat. “This is no time to wimp out,” she hissed, angrily. “You know what’s at stake. You won’t get access to this guy, in time, to wipe his memory or discredit his story. He’ll talk, the military will want Transformer technology, and presto: chaos everywhere.”

Her feet refused to move; her eyes glued to a medical chart bearing the name “Bud Vincent”. Curiosity overwhelmed resolve and she looked at the patient. He was young… oh, so young… with blond hair and an innocent face. Someone had propped a cheesy “get well soon” card in his limp hand. It hung open, and was signed “with love from Coby and Lori”.

His was one life that Junko must take, in order to save millions. A drop in the bucket in an ocean of blood.

But it wasn’t.

It was three lives, already, just because she’d looked in a car. More – the flowers came from someone else, friends named Carlos and Brad. Five lives, in less time than it took to take one. How much further would it spread – how great a ripple would she create? Did these people deserve more tragedy, even if it saved the lives of others?

_Why do good people do bad things?_

That question lay at the centre of her father’s fascination. He was dying by the time he explained – ravaged by cancers similar to those that killed his own parents. He’d spent his life seeking one single answer, yet would leave the world without it.

Junko could add more questions. Why did selfish robots do selfless things? How did grace arise from greed? At what point did one’s actions to save the world damn that person’s own soul?

She looked at Bud Vincent. Junko didn’t owe him anything, didn’t _feel_ for him, particularly, as a person. He might die anyway – or already be a brain-dead vegetable, in which case she’d be doing him a favour. That didn’t ease her own conscience any; it didn’t excuse what she had come here to do.

Come here to do…

_Why do good people do bad things?_

… but would not be doing.

Her father’s words ringing in her head, Junko turned and made her way out the way she’d come. A black cable – camouflaged against the night sky – waited outside the supply room’s window, ready to lift her back to Sideways. The Transformer hovered, all but invisible, just below the city smog.

“I should turn you in at the first toll booth,” Sideways quipped as she climbed aboard. “You disgust me, you filthy killer.”

“Shut up,” she growled, dropping heavily into one of the cockpit seats.

Sideways was quiet for a moment. “No electro-shock for my temerity,” he said approvingly. “No rancour, no venom. You didn’t do it.”

Junko didn’t answer.

“Well, for what it’s worth,” Sideways whispered, “I think you did the right thing. Seriously.”

She glanced, one-eyed, at his control panel. “I find it hard to take anything you say seriously.”

He didn’t respond; the lights on his control panel twinkled as he set a course for the hangar. Junko didn’t have to order it, nor threaten him with the remote control… he just headed for “home” as if it were the most normal thing in the world.

Junko hated him so very, very much. The question was: did she hate herself more or less, now, for her cowardice?

\-----

He didn’t know what to make of it, and that bothered him.

On the outside, Koji played it cool. On the inside, he was a little wiggy. Ever since the Transformers had re-entered the lives of his family, he’d become paranoid. He looked closely at the cars and trucks that drove past his school. Brown cars made the hairs on his neck stand up – every one reminded him of the robot that kidnapped his parents.

Paranoia was keeping him awake. Well, that and the indigestion. He was staring at the ceiling of his borrowed bedroom, feeling every little nick and scratch of the still-unfamiliar bed linen, cataloguing the noises outside. The little sleep he’d had was fitful. His subconscious was channel-surfing, downloading gobs of useless information and scrambling it into really stupid, really senseless patterns.

Senseless save for one: the dream where Alexis turned out to be a holomatter avatar.

It had been pretty creepy. In his dream, they’d been riding the Harley along the coast. They’d hit a bump and he’d gone to grab her waist, only to pass straight through it. Koji had fallen forward and bashed his head on the handlebars – except they were now spiny antlers, connected to the head of a long, green lizard. The beast had then turned its head, smiled, and swallowed Koji whole. Unpleasant, to say the least.

The dream was keeping him awake. It clung to his eyes and temples like cobwebs. Thinking about it only made it worse… after all, the Harley always seemed to start itself. That suggested a bike that hadn’t come off the lot but, rather, from the stars.

He sighed. He was about to do something stupid… again.

Koji crept out of bed and pulled a house coat around him. Barefoot, he tip-toed down the hall toward Sally and Alexis’ room. Their door was slightly open and, peering through, he could see they were both asleep.

Sally was on her side, her face nuzzled into her partner’s neck. One arm was draped over Alexis, who was lying face-up and totally out of it. Feeling like a sick voyeur, Koji slunk as closed as he dared to the side of the bed… and stared.

Alexis was breathing like a normal person. Her nostrils flared slightly. She was even _drooling_ out the corner of one mouth. Grimacing, Koji stuck out a tentative finger and touched the drool. It was disgustingly warm and sticky… in other words, _real._ Hurriedly, he wiped it on his pyjama pants. “She’s not holomatter,” he whispered, then clamped his hands over his stupid mouth.

Sally stirred. “Koji?” she muttered, not opening her eyes. “Izzat you?”

He froze. Sally mouthed a few more words, then plopped her head back onto Alexis’ shoulder. As soon as he was sure his aunt was sound asleep, the boy all but ran back into the hallway. There he paused, feeling nauseous and ashamed.

“You’re a freak,” he told himself.

He pondered his still-sticky finger. Okay, so Alexis was human. That didn’t mean she wasn’t a dupe. The Transformers had been hiding on Earth for 10 years, right? And not all the Terrorcons looked like big animals. Maybe they had some cars in their army, just like the Autobots. And if Alexis didn’t know that Transformers existed, she may not know her car and bike were more – much more – than met the eye.

Koji went down the stairs, through the kitchen and out into the garage. A chill ran through him – the Harley and the Trans-Am had switched places. He was _sure_ of it. Alexis had parked the bike closest to the kitchen door, between it and the big, black car. But he found himself peering over the Trans-Am to see the orange bike… whose handlebars were facing the garage door, not the back wall!

The boy dropped to his knees, next to the car. Eyes straining in the half-light, he looked for seams in the smooth metalwork. Hidden wires, gears, servomotors… anything that resembled the piles of junk he’d seen in Downshift’s workshop. He searched for symbols – insignias Autobot or Terrorcon – but found nothing.

He remembered a story Jazz had told about his Dad’s superhuman powers. Joshua Jones was able to sense Energon, the potent substance that powered Transformer bodies. He could detect the glowing liquid from hundreds of feet away, and its approach made his hair stand up and change from brown to white-blond. Koji had seen it happen once, while watching the Terrorcon kidnapping on TV.

Carefully, he reached up and touched his hair. It was sticking up, all right – like normal bed hair. A quick look confirmed it was still its usual dull brown colour.

“You’re a chump,” he groaned.

Koji got up and walked around the garage. Alexis must’ve moved the bike and car around while he was asleep; that was the simplest answer. Maybe he’d knocked out deeper than he’d thought, at first.

Self-consciously, he reached up and tapped the communicator in his breast pocket. It seemed dumb, now, bringing it along. He must have tapped it too hard; the device beeped as it activated. He fumbled, trying to switch it off.

Something moved in the darkness – something large. It reached out and slapped him across the chest; the communicator crushed, painfully, against his breastbone. Koji was lifted off his feet and thrown into the garage door, which clattered and rumbled. A second shape loomed from the opposite direction and, like the first, pushed up against his chest. He felt tiny pieces of plastic and wiring piece his skin.

He opened his mouth to cry out, but a single metallic finger covered his lips. The silver digit was connected to a chrome arm, resembling the grille of a powerful motorbike. Koji realised, to his horror, the Harley had unfolded into an angry-looking robot. Thin legs supported a massive upper body, while wheels jutted from the creature’s shoulders. A visor hid its eyes, but not its foul expression.

“Keep it down, you little Quint-fracker,” it growled, its accent vaguely southern. “We’re serious mechs trying to do a serious night’s work here! I’m a Doctor of Espionage, dammit, I don’t need interruptions!”

“As your representative,” barked another voice, “I’d advise you to squash the creep.”

Koji looked into the eyes of a second Transformer. Its face was not even vaguely human. Red searchlights were mounted above its equally crimson optics, while a series of grilles and masks obscured the lower half of its head. Tiny shoulders joined up with ridiculously oversized forearms. What Koji could see of its lower body – beneath the air scoop that formed its chest – looked like a poorly-designed mess of windscreens, pipes and kibble.

“What are you trying to do,” the former Harley demanded, “bring the pigs down on us right away? Primus, I knew it – you’re a narc. A filthy, disgusting undercover agent, working for The Mech to lock me up and beat me with fibre-optic cables!”

“Calm down,” the bigger robot, sounding oddly unaffected, said, “and get a grip on yourself. Lay off the deutronium. You only needed a teeny-tiny taste. You took too much, mech, too much… too much.”

“Sure… of course,” the bike replied, its posture relaxing. “We’re all friends here, right? No more talk about Autobots or Terrorcon insurgents. Keep the peace, play it nice, get used to being on the losing side. Ho ho, bubba.”

A large, silver pipe was waved in front of Koji’s head. It was the Harley’s exhaust pipe but it, too, had transformed – into a powerful-looking assault rifle. Inexplicably, it had the word “Dutch” engraved into the barrel.

“Knock it off!”

Both robots turned to look at the kitchen doorway. Alexis, wrapped in a black silk kimono, looked furious. For a moment, Koji’s heart sung… then he noticed Aunt Sally’s limp body, sprawled behind her. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing.

Alexis walked into the garage, waving the Transformers back. Reluctantly, they obeyed – Koji could now see they were hunched over, or sitting on their haunches, in order to fit in the garage without breaking it open. The woman he’d once thought he could trust… that he thought he’d liked… looked at him coolly.

“Sorry, Koji,” she said. “I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this – I tried to keep you out of it – but there’s no turning back. Starscream will want to have a word with you.”

Koji didn’t know who “Starscream” was but, from the way the two robots started laughing, he was one hundred per cent certain he didn’t want to find out.


	4. Chapter 4

“Our visitors have departed,” Shockblast announced.

Starscream peered past his steepled fingers and shifted in his command chair. “Have they, now?”

“All of them,” Shockblast confirmed. “With both carcasses in tow.”

“Beautiful,” Starscream chuckled, rising from the chair. “Absolutely beautiful. When you think about it, Shockblast, the Autobot army is really nothing more than a big, dumb animal. Cut off its head and the body flails around for a while – energetic thrashings, of course, but on the whole utterly useless.”

The one-eyed, one-armed military strategist tapped at a keyboard. “The Global Space Bridge Portal has closed – I’ll bombard it with radiation. It shan’t be opening again.”

Something moved in a dark corner of the command centre. “The first decent decision you’ve made today, Starscream.”

“What you possess in battlefield cunning, Obsidian,” Starscream said witheringly, “you lack in style and panache. Belay that idea, Shockblast – leave the portal active.”

Every optic in the room turned to him. Tankor, lurking near Obsidian, growled threateningly. Shockblast was puzzled; Soundwave was, as always, quiet.

“ _Think_ about it, people,” Starscream sighed. “One of those Autobots was Nightbeat, the detective. You know he’s going to want to come back and ‘sift for clues’, or whatever it is the whanging great geek does with his time. Don’t you think he’ll be a touch suspicious if the GSB portal is, all of a sudden, offline?”

Tankor scratched his over-armoured cerebral casing. “He’d blame it on the Terrorcons,” the giant muttered. “Both sides have been sniping over the GSB for months. There’d be no reason to suspect…”

“… that the island upon which their great and powerful Earthforce commander was critically injured is actually a disguised Decepticon fortress?” Starscream snapped, crossing the room and yelling in Tankor’s face. “That a hidden cadre of Decepticons poured out of the sand, seconds after Flame Convoy fell, and took care of any loose ends? That said group of Decepticons are ready and waiting to turn this simpering guerrilla conflict into the new front line of a revitalised Transformer civil war?”

He tutted. “Tankor, you _disappoint_ me. Recent history shows we can no longer rely on our prejudiced, jaded opinions of what Autobots may or may not think. Remember the Battle of Iacon, hmm? Megatron’s grand plan to take control of Cybertron in one fell swoop?”

His voice turned shrill. “If not for my tactical brilliance, we’d have _all been annihilated_ that day, you dumb lummox! So sit down, shut up and do as your leader _commands_ you!”

Tankor fell silent. Obsidian drew further back into his shadows. _Just as it should be,_ Starscream thought happily. _They may speak out of turn at times, but the once-proud warlords of Kalis are finally aware of their lowly spot on the Decepticon food chain._

“Resume normal operations,” he ordered, “and monitor the GSB portal closely. I want to know when… not if, _when_ … Nightbeat returns.” He stormed out of the room, Soundwave at his heels as ever. He did not pause to acknowledge, nor return, the stiff salutes of his command team.

The duo passed through the bridge doors and stepped off a small platform, out into the cavernous interior of the Decepticon fortress. In designing it, Starscream had refused to compromise his visions with tunnels, corridors or anything resembling an Autobot outlook on comfort. They were Decepticons, after all; theirs was the gift of flight, and resultant superiority over all other beings! Starscream’s stronghold was inaccessible to pathetic cripples – one had to fly, soaring past the many trophies of their decade of conquest, to move from room to room.

“Lugnutz and Runamuck are enroute,” Soundwave said. “They have the boy.”

“Good,” Starscream replied. “The only useful thing about sponges, Soundwave, is that which they soak up and retain. When the fleshling arrives, we can wring him out and see what he knows about this planet’s Energon deposits.”

“Alexis is with them,” the communicator muttered.

Starscream shuddered. “No good news without bad,” he deadpanned. “That misguided female is quite the tool, but she’s also a pain in the afterburner.”

“Elimination?” the midnight blue warrior asked.

“Not yet. We’ve not survived these past 10 years by squandering our resources. Alexis is easily satisfied – easily dealt with. It’s but an hour out of my day, anyway. Less than she’s worth, but more than she deserves.”

Soundwave did not answer. That was one of the many things he admired about his lieutenant – he spoke only when the need arose. Would that more of his “elite soldiers” followed such an example.

Case in point – yet another ruckus in the supply area. Sighing mightily, the Decepticon leader and his minion arced downward. He tapped a button on his wrist communicator, and the twin-nosed form of Slugslinger pulled alongside.

The grinning gunman was the base’s head of internal security, tasked to contain any situations arising within the quarters. Put more simply, he was the bully with the authority to put a Decepticon in a CR chamber if he got out of line.

“I was already on my way,” Slugslinger drawled.

“Of course you were,” Starscream sneered, rolling his optics.

The new disturbance was the same as every one before. Rumble had been moving a batch of supplies; Demolishor and Snow Cat had picked on the smaller, depressed Transformer until a fight broke out.

No matter how many times it happened, the dump truck and the artic interceptor had yet to learn Rumble was more than a match for them. The Gigalonian compensated for his statue with pile driver arms which that now slammed into the floor and rattled the entire base.

“I’m sick o’ youse guys hounding me alla time,” Rumble bellowed. “I’m gonna put my fists through yer stoopid heads, right now!”

Snow Cat cackled madly. “Gotta catch us first, runt,” he called.

The Gigalonian transformed to insect tank mode, darting across the hangar and up Demolishor’s leg. The simian robot grunted and reached down with blocky hands to attack his colleague. Rumble was too fast; he changed shape and, hanging upside down, fired his pile drivers into the bigger robot’s knee servos. Demolishor fell over forwards and buried his head in the floor. Rumble leaped for Snow Cat.

Slugslinger intercepted the airborne mech, catching him between his cockpits. Pink energy crackled but, again, Rumble was swifter. Before the pacifying bolts could shut him off, he scrabbled onto the jet’s broad back and lashed out with his shoulder-mounted Energon blade. Slugslinger balked and dropped like a stone.

“Oh, for pity’s sake,” Starscream cried. “Take him down, someone!”

Rumble hit the ground and was on Snow Cat’s trail again. The berserker transformed and peeled out, travelling as fast as treads and tyres could carry him. His pursuer took off after him, cursing all the while. Both pulled hard left-hand turns; Starscream and Soundwave changed course to intercept.

Ahead, a cargo bay door opened to reveal Swindle and Shortround. The munitions dealer and the destructive little nerd were lugging a long, dark-coloured box toward the interior of the base. Soundwave took one look at their cargo and blanched – disaster was just seconds away.

Starscream fired both his cannons. Null rays tore through the space and ploughed into the babbling combatants. Bolts of electricity and reams of rubber flew from Snowcat; Rumble crumpled in place and skidded along the smooth iron of the floor. The bigger mech’s momentum was too great, however, even for the null ray – inertia pulled him on toward the deadly cargo.

“Watch out,” Shortround wailed.

It was too late. The deactivated artic warrior caromed into his comrades. Swindle was thrown into the air; ever the opportunist, he bounced off a bulkhead but managed to grab hold, hanging there desperately. Shortround fared more poorly. The aquatic dweeb was crushed under Snow Cat’s rear end and trapped. The vehicle’s front end did the most damage – it crashed into, and toppled, _it._

Every mech in the area held their breath.

Starscream touched down as _gently_ as he could and crept over to the box. It was wider at the top than the bottom; tapered like the coffins used by humans. Cybertronian sigils and scrawl covered its every surface; powerful hydraulic bolts and locks kept it sealed shut. The Decepticon leader watched, carefully, for any sign of movement… any sign at all that the world was about to end… arising from the black and silver deathbed.

A noise, like a shot, rang out. A dent appeared in the formerly smooth lid of the box. There was another loud bang, coming from inside the casket, followed by a hideous, haunting moan. Then… nothing.

“Phew,” Starscream exhaled.

Snow Cat, Demolishor and Rumble were carted to the medbay. Slugslinger promised he’d _talk_ to them; that was, likely, worse than any punishment Starscream could assign. Shortround was well enough to continue the errand, though he allowed Swindle to do most of the pulling. They left the area – the nerd riding on the back of the yellow jeep – with strict instructions to store _it_ in a more isolated location.

Starscream and Soundwave returned to their original task.

Every Decepticon knew their glorious base extended hundreds of feet below the ocean’s surface, puncturing the sea bed and gouging into the very Earth itself. Many of them had spent their first days inside the wondrous structure in awestruck exploration; pouring over every inch of its expansive magnificence. Be that as it may, none save four members of the Decepticon army knew about _this_ spot.

At the touch of a secret button, a hidden panel opened at the very base of the north wall; it revealed a portal just large enough for Starscream to pass through comfortably. Soundwave, taller than his master, had to stoop, but that was of no consequence. The only other mechs who knew of the interrogation chamber weren’t likely to use the door. They preferred to come in from outside, through the water.

The flight of stairs was lit only by small globes in the balustrade; superior optics took care of the rest. The Decepticon leader did not walk down the steps like a peasant. Assuming his most regal of poses, he _floated_ down.

Tidal Wave and Ramjet met them at the base of the stairs. Starscream had to crane his neck to meet the giant’s optics. The Decepticon pirate was immense – almost as big as Omega Supreme – and had, for a time, served as their living base of operations. The new fortress had removed the titan’s burden, and he had since dedicated himself and his Mini-con partner to less benevolent pursuits… like torture. They’d excelled.

Starscream sniffed. He and the self-proclaimed “dark fleet” had never gotten along. Vorns ago, in the earliest days of the way, they’d shared a covert mission that had gone… awry. An attack on an Energon refinery had not gone to plan, and Starscream had been forced to abandon his larger, critically injured “friend”.

Oh, it had ended up all right – Ramjet, the loathsome parasite, had provided a jump-start and form a life-long partnership with Tidal Wave. Still, the big lunk remained obsessed with Starscream’s completely understandable decision to abandon ship. Why, Tidal Wave had almost refused rescue, during the Battle of Iacon, upon learning he’d have to serve Starscream! What kind of a moron was he?

Still, they co-existed _well enough_ these days. Distance helped – both geographic distance and distance in function. Starscream led from the front; Tidal Wave lurked in the rear and dug out all the dirty secrets his boss needed. The giant didn’t have to get ordered around by someone he loathed; the aerial warrior didn’t have to keep a close optic on someone who’d just as soon crush him as help him. It was a neat arrangement.

That was, in Starscream’s opinion, what leadership was all about – simplicity. Megatron had believed in peace through tyranny; Optimus Prime in being friends with his mechs, in winning their hearts and minds. Starscream was happy to make the hearts of his troops sing and have their minds comfortably clouded by the illusion of free will. A time would come, soon, when none of them would be necessary any longer… until then, peace and plenty was the name of the game.

It was the sort of leadership strategy, he was sure, his guest would find obscene.

“Well, here we are,” he said conversationally. “I trust you’re comfortable?”

Broad wings rose from the mech’s back; they’d been newly re-attached to once-jagged stumps. A wound in the being’s side, formerly ragged, had been patched – and more expertly, this time. Fixed, too, were the pockmarks, scorches and claw marks that had marred its blue-and-white form. Melted steel had been replaced and fragments of ice cleared away. The mech was back in fighting trim; likely, he would be standing tall if not for the energy chains binding his legs, back and lower torso to the floor. His shoulders were pinned to the wall; his arms stretched to full extended and bound, at the wrists, by manacles. A long scar ran the length of the robot’s face plate, effectively crossing out its right optic.

“Comfortable?” Ultra Magnus glowered. “You’re joking.”


End file.
